A Modest Proposal
by Constantinus
Summary: In which Ruffnut learns the hard way that the course of true love never did run smooth. Rated T for vague implications.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Why does this fic exist, you ask? Because my irritating imagination won't give me a break. In the midst of working on a much longer AU fic, this popped into my head and refuses to go away. I blame it on having too much free time.**

 **Disclaimer: These characters don't belong to me. Bummer.**

* * *

One for the Money:

Astrid crouches in the tall grass, balancing lightly on the balls of her feet and holding completely still. She grasps her axe loosely in one hand, the wooden handle smooth after years of daily use. From across the clearing, she eyes her target carefully, gauging every possible variable with a practiced eye. Finally, in one smooth motion, she stands and casts her axe with a perfect throw. The shining blade sinks deep into the target with a satisfying _thunk_.

Then a shriek rings out across the clearing and Astrid's heart jumps into her throat.

She's up and running across the clearing in the next second, fearing the worst. Just as she reaches the far side, a familiar face pops out from behind the tree wearing a very disapproving scowl.

"Astrid!" Ruffnut yelps. "You could've killed me!"

Astrid slows her stride to a walk, trying to look as if her rush was only to retrieve her axe. "What are you doing sneaking around here? And where's Tuffnut?"

"Eh, I left him at home," Ruffnut replies, shrugging and stomping around the tree with her arms crossed. "And I was looking for you."

Astrid grabs her axe haft and pulls, tugging until it pops out of the tree's trunk and checking the blade for possible dents or nicks; there are none, so she sets the axe down and studies her friend a bit more closely.

Ruffnut's facial expression generally varies between evil grin—which has its own shades of variation, from schemer's smirk to willing accomplice—and tough scowl. The latter is designed to frighten off monsters of every description, from wild dragons to unwary suitors. And when Tuffnut is around, Ruffnut's face drops into an only half-intentional disclosure of mutton-headedness.

Today, Ruffnut wears the scowl, the one subconsciously tuned to suitors. And that means trouble. Astrid is used to her friend's moods by now, so she finishes her rapid assessment and dives into the inevitable conversation. "You're looking for advice," she volunteers. "About men."

Ruffnut grimaces in distaste. "Are they all idiots? I know Tuff's a moron, but Snotlout's head is bigger than his backside and Fishlegs can't stop spouting useless information at me like a walking cyclop- . . . enclopcy- . . . whatever that word is."

"Encyclopedia?" Astrid offers, and Ruffnut nods in affirmation.

"How in Thor's name did you and Hiccup ever figure yourselves out?"

Astrid hesitates. "Um, we . . . I dunno' . . . I guess we started with kissing and it . . . progressed . . . from there."

Ruffnut sniggers, a most unladylike sound. "I'll bet it did."

Astrid hefts her axe again, eyes glinting dangerously. "Not what you're imagining," she warns, looking Ruffnut straight in the eye.

But her friend only shrugs again and kicks at the dirt with her boot. "At least you both know what you want."

"Don't you?"

Silence. Ruffnut huffs impatiently, as if she was looking for an obvious answer. But Astrid is used to this too, and she's not one to waste time. She takes the direct approach.

"Men are like weapons," she states matter-of-factly, much to Ruffnut's confusion.

"Oh, really?"

Astrid ignores the sarcasm in her friend's voice and keeps going. "Their longevity is dependent on their quality, and their usefulness on their purpose."

Ruffnut cocks her head quizzically and blinks several times. "Nope, not getting' it," she finally states.

Undeterred, Astrid lifts her axe again, examining it minutely while she continues to speak. "For example, an axe is great for throwing and chopping, but you wouldn't use it to skin a wild boar."

"What do wild boars have to do with this?" Ruffnut protests, her voice echoing in the clearing.

"Or," Astrid continues, "a mace is great for crushing, but terrible if you need to stab something."

"You know," Ruffnut interrupts, her voice now dangerously quiet, "I have yet to meet a mace that made a good boyfriend."

Astrid pauses at that: they both remember all too well what happened when Tuffnut started to fancy Macey. They both shudder at the memory.

"Okay then." Astrid resumes her discourse, waxing eloquent. "Broadswords are good, because you can stab and chop with them. But they're terrible for defending yourself from flying projectiles."

"Well this is all very nice," Ruffnut says, scratching her head, "but what do weapons have to do with men?"

Astrid rolls her eyes in frustration, but decides to answer the question. "You can only choose one, so you pick the one that's most compatible with your style: axe, mace, or broadsword."

They stand quietly for a few moments, Ruffnut with a look of dawning comprehension on her face. Astrid smiles, pleased that something's gotten through.

"Tuffnut's a moron," Ruffnut finally says.

That has Astrid confused. "You've said that before," she points out.

"Yeah? He said I should pick the guy who'll eat my cooking and can beat me at arm-wrestling. Stupid advice."

A nearby bush rustles, though the clearing is windless, and Astrid throws her axe without a moment's hesitation. A high-pitched yelp rings through the air and heavy footfalls patter away rapidly.

"Axe, mace, or broadsword, you said?" Ruffnut asks, then dashes away in pursuit.

Astrid watches her friend go, and shakes her head knowingly. There was absolutely no accounting for taste, especially in Ruffnut's case.

* * *

Hiccup is unusually talkative during their evening flight around the island; he tells her about the plans for the final dragon race of the autumn, describes the diagrams for rebuilding the granary and dairy houses, asks her opinion about starting an upcoming group of youngsters at the academy, and proposes a quick scouting trip to some outlying islands. Astrid smiles at that, not needing any further persuasion. It would be perfect, just the two of them with Toothless and Stormfly, no interruptions, no irritating questions or arguments about rebuilding or the harvest, no impromptu visits from neighboring tribes. And definitely no awkward conversations about Ruffnut's complicated love life.

She is abruptly pulled from her idyllic daydream by a wry comment from Hiccup, something about 'Fishlegs came down to the forge today'.

She perks up her ears. "What for?" she asks, afraid she might already know the answer.

"He was asking about building a new saddle for Meatlug," Hiccup answers with a small grimace, "as if he hasn't already built a new one three times in the last two years. His excuse before was that he's finally growing his 'man-height,' as he puts it. Whatever that means." Hiccup lifts his hands and gestures expressively with his fingers. "But today, he said that he needs a new one that includes a weapon rack, one that can hold an axe, a mace, and a broadsword. I mean, since when has Fishlegs worried about carrying a weapon, let alone three of them?"

Astrid sits for a moment in shocked disbelief, then bursts out laughing.

Hiccup stares at her in astonishment. "What's so funny?" he finally asks; Stormfly and Toothless have sensed Astrid's mood and are threatening to start _playing_ , an activity that involves barrel rolls, playful nips, and other uncomfortable aerial moves.

"I'll tell you later," she answers, getting her laughter under control just in time to keep Stormfly from wiggling in mid-air.

* * *

 **To be continued . . .**


	2. Chapter 2

Two for the Show:

"This is gonna' be the best Snoggletog ever!"

"Those are dangerous words, Tuff," Ruffnut snorts, almost choking on her morning porridge. She really would prefer mutton, but it's been a lean winter and the villagers are conserving the sheep until the last necessity.

"I mean it," he replies. "And you thought only Astrid had good ideas." He is beaming by this time, bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

Ruffnut rolls her eyes, determined not to get caught up in his excitement. But if she gulps down the last few bites a little more quickly than usual and neglects to wash her hands as she follows Tuffnut out the door, there is nobody to notice. Not even Snotlout is that observant, and he's been sticking to her like honey lately.

Tuffnut tiptoes down the hill, leaving very small prints in the fresh snow. He is grinning like an idiot, and every so often he stuffs a fist in his mouth to stifle an evil chortle. The morning is brisk and cold, but the new-risen sun sparkles on the sea with glints of gold and silver, winter's gift to the people of Berk.

"Where are we going?" Ruffnut whispers, catching up and grabbing Tuffnut's elbow.

"Remember when you asked me to get Snotlout off your back?" he asks.

"Yeah, like three months ago," she replies sarcastically.

"Well, I've got an idea," he chuckles, and then Ruffnut notices the fish he's carrying in his hand. It's a large salmon, freshly caught, a treasure difficult to procure in the depths of winter.

This peaks her curiosity, so she pokes him none too gently in the ribs. He yelps slightly, but manages to hold on to the fish. It's a good thing too; Barf and Belch have followed them down the hill and are now eagerly sniffing at the smooth, shiny snack.

"Come on! What's your idea?" she demands, stopping him in his tracks.

He turns toward her and grins evilly, a pleasant change from his usual slack-jawed, mutton-headed stare. Then, tucking the salmon under his arm, he leans in to whisper in her ear. Her face lights up gleefully, like it does whenever something explodes. With a toss of her head and a new spring in her step, she takes the lead, flouncing down the snow-clad slope as if it's a garden of rosebuds and she the Queen of Sheba. Not that Ruffnut has heard of Sheba; if she ever does, she'll probably think it's a winter sport. Tuffnut slinks behind her, slowing down as she speeds up to put part one of their plan into action.

They reach a house on the outskirts of the village, a structure slightly larger than most and decorated with an ornately carved dragon head over the doorway. With a nod and a wink in her brother's direction, Ruffnut knocks politely on the front door.

It opens with the loud creak of protesting leather hinges, to reveal Spitelout. He glowers at her under a helmet that is only slightly askew. Ruffnut smiles even wider, steadfastly resisting the urge to giggle. Berkians are at their very best when suddenly awoken in the early morning hours. Swiftly regaining her composure, she curtseys ever so politely. "Good morning, Mr. Spitelout, sir," she says, her voice demurely low and soothing, "is Snotlout up?"

Spitelout wrinkles his nose, looking her up and down; what his son sees in the Thorston girl is a mystery to him, but boys will be boys, and he wouldn't mind a few healthy grandchildren before he dies of old age and boredom. He yells something unintelligible over his shoulder.

From the recesses of the house's interior, Ruffnut can hear a sharp clattering and several grunts of mingled surprise and pain. Spitelout backs away, replaced by his son, who, until quite recently, was still snoring contentedly. His short bearskin cape is inside out and his belt only half secured around his middle. Half asleep and confronted by the object of his affection at what most Vikings would call an unholy hour, he has to keep himself from drooling. Ruffnut bats her eyelashes at him and saunters away toward the village center.

He follows, eventually catching up and putting an arm around her. She rolls her eyes toward the sky and he interprets the expression as a gesture of encouragement. Ruffnut has made no attempt to remove his hand, so he deems it safe to try conversation.

"So, princess," he ventures, "any plans for the Snoggletog celebration tonight?"

Ruffnut actually smiles at him. It's her schemer's smirk, the one that Tuffnut knows quite well, but Snotlout hasn't seen it recently and wouldn't recognize it even if he had. "Well, I was thinking of celebrating it with a special someone."

"Oh, yeah?" he returns, eyes widening in kindled hope.

She flashes her teeth at him and he licks his lips nervously. They've reached the village square by this time, standing still and facing each other in the early morning light. Ruffnut is pretty, when she tries to be, and it doesn't take much to impress Snotlout Jorgenson.

He dithers for a few seconds, not quite believing the turn this conversation has taken, then gallantly kneels in the snow even though his knees will be wet through. He opens his mouth to speak, then abruptly shuts it again. This is neither the time nor the place, he's not prepared, his father hasn't even spoken to hers, but it's Snoggletog, she's in a rare mood, and he might never get this chance again.

"Ruffnut," he begins, hesitantly, "could you possibly . . . I mean, would you—"

"Meet you at the Great Hall tonight?" she interrupts, laughing lightly. "Don't be late."

Well. This isn't at all how he pictured it, but it could be much worse. He recognizes the dismissal and stands, snapping his gaping mouth shut and marching away toward the Great Hall with his head held high and a large, slimy salmon stuck in the back of his belt.

It doesn't take long before a flock of dragons gathers behind, each one eyeing both the salmon and its fellows warily. They're caught up in that limbo of evaluation and challenge, measuring possible gains against probable losses, before the inevitable pounce. Snotlout saunters on, buoyed by his recent success at wooing and innocently unaware of the storm brewing in his immediate vicinity, for dragons cannot resist a fish.

A Terror breaks the calm first, wriggling forward in blur of speed, intent on the prize, but he's swiftly nudged away by Barf and Belch, both of them fighting to get there first. Then Hookfang pounces, using tail and talons and his advantage in size to crowd everybody else out. But dragons don't give up easily, especially when the object is food. All three dragons scuffle and scratch, attracting still more dragons until they're all tangled up in a knot of legs, tails, necks, and screaming, roaring, flame-spitting heads, with Snotlout at the bottom of the pile.

Ruffnut and Tuffnut watch from a safe distance, tears streaming down their cheeks as their peals of laughter echo off the surrounding houses. It's the laughter more than the shrieks of the dragons that rouses the rest of the village, and a crowd gathers to watch the dragons scuffle.

When Hiccup arrives on Toothless's back, the fish has mysteriously disappeared but the dragons are still fighting. Snotlout has somehow extricated himself from the thrashing heap and is now nursing a gash in his wide leather belt and a severe wound to his precious dignity.

Ruffnut cuffs Tuffnut on the ear; he responds by kicking her in the shins.

"You were right," she admits, rubbing the newly acquired bruises. "It is gonna' be the best Snoggletog ever!"

"And now Snotlout's off your back," Tuffnut replies.

"And there's something off his back," she responds.

With which expressions of familial affection, the twins knock their helmets together and head toward the docks together, happily plotting their next diabolical move.

* * *

 **Stay tuned for Chapter 3 . . .**


	3. Chapter 3

Three to Get Ready:

All in all, Fishlegs has lived a happy life. He is a respected authority on dragons and their habits, he has a very loving relationship with his own beautiful Meatlug, the prettiest dragon in the Northern Hemisphere, and he has the satisfaction of knowing that Berk is peaceful and prosperous in part because of him. At least, that's what he tells himself every day, when thoughts of _her_ intrude on his activities and he is forced to confront the painful truth that he is head-over-heels in love with somebody who hates him. At least, that's what she tells him.

He hasn't shared his predicament with Meatlug, of course; she's sensitive, and he's not sure if she'll handle it well. Three is a crowd, so they say, and neither of them has had to make room for a third before now.

But it's all about to change. Spring is coming, and with it a sense of urgency such as he's never felt before. The competition, always present, has increased of late, and Fishlegs is determined to not be caught waiting around.

He lifts the brand-new saddle onto Meatlug's comfortingly knobby back and starts tightening the straps. She notices something different immediately and rumbles questioningly. He strokes her encouragingly. "It's okay, girl," he says, putting on his best soothing voice. "Today's the day and we're gonna' do this together."

She licks him knee to neck, satisfied, and he steps back to survey his handiwork.

He'd asked for a new saddle, and Gobber, never one to back down for a challenge, delivered. It's a two-seater, broad and sturdy, with a tall weapons rack in the back, capable of holding up to three separate items. A gleaming set of new weapons already swings from it, an axe, mace, and broadsword ready for any possible attack. Hiccup had protested the saddle's construction, frequently pointing out that the extras were ungainly and likely to keep Meatlug on the ground, but Fishlegs's persistence and Gobber's glee had drowned out his objections. Berk is a free village, after all, and Fishlegs is free to ride his own dragon however he likes.

He climbs aboard, being careful to avoid errant swings from the axe, then leans down to scratch Meatlug, nearly toppling out in the process. He rights himself and sticks to tugging her ears affectionately. She lows in disappointment. "Aww, don't worry, girl," he replies, "we'll just have to get used to it."

He gives her a pat and she unfolds her wings, flapping them experimentally. It takes her a bit longer to get in the air than usual, but he's not unduly worried; she's been carrying him around for nearly six years and he's put on extra weight during the winter. It happens every year, but this time he's more conscious of it than before. But Meatlug valiantly overcomes her early wobbles and rises into the sky. He points in the right direction and they head off together to the other object of Fishlegs's affection.

She isn't hard to find; there's already a thin column of smoke rising in the air and the sound of Barf and Belch snarling at each other over a smoldering pile of unidentified matter.

Fishlegs rolls his eyes, knowing he has his work cut out for him, and directs Meatlug to change course. If he must make an entrance, at least it's going to be memorable.

Barf and Belch are squabbling, Ruffnut and Tuffnut are snickering, and an eager crowd is gathering when Fishlegs and Meatlug return, diving into the smoke column so Meatlug can dump her mouthful of seawater on the embers. A cloud of steam envelopes both dragon and rider and they are lost for a moment. When they burst out of the cloud and land, it is to a chorus of 'oohs' and 'aahs'. Vikings are easily impressed, though Bucket thoughtfully scratches at his bucket and asks if the kettle's boiling.

Fishlegs climbs down as gracefully as he can manage, very aware of all the eyes on him. The moment is ripe, it's now or never, so he strides up to Ruffnut with all the confidence he can muster, slings her over his shoulder and placidly returns to Meatlug's side. Ruffnut is surprised at first, but regains her composure quickly: he knows it the moment she starts kicking and punching with all her might, and growling at him to 'put her down'. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea after all. He plops her gently into the extra seat in his saddle, then climbs up beside her and urges Meatlug up and away.

She grouses, but obeys, and they climb into the sky, headed far away from the crowd gathered below. Barf watches from the ground, his wide lips wrinkling in a very plaintive frown. As they rise through the air, Ruffnut has stopped growling, but she still frowns at him. She frowns like a thundercloud about to break; he's scared of her frown, and not without reason. The frown doesn't bode well for what he has planned.

He shifts nervously in the saddle, and it wobbles slightly.

"Um," he stutters, not sure what to say now that the time has come. Ruffnut is still glaring daggers at him. Flustered, he falls back on his old conversational standby. "Did you know the Gronkle can carry up to three times its own body weight?"

"Oh, really?"

He ignores the sarcastic tone and presses forward. "And, because they're so adept at hovering, Gronkles are the perfect dragon from which to train for accuracy with skills like lava blasting." Meatlug obliges by spewing lava onto a pine tree below; it promptly shrivels and collapses. "Archery." He hasn't brought a bow and arrow, so he mimes shooting. Unfortunately, his arms are too short for the pull of a longbow, so it ends up looking like he's trying to hug thin air. "Or axe-throwing." He reaches behind her head to grab the axe hanging so handily within reach.

The axe comes loose easily enough, but he's clumsy with it, unused to its weight, and the axe-blade drops and accidentally severs one of the leather straps holding the weapon rack on the saddle. As if in slow motion, he watches as the rack slips, then tips, then slides right off and drops to the ground far below, where it shatters. Meatlug is clearly happy about the reduced weight, for she wiggles her tail and tries to fly higher.

Bad idea; with a pang of fear and guilt, Fishlegs suddenly remembers that the straps for the weapon rack were connected to the saddle girths and Meatlug's wiggling has loosened those as well. While he screams in abject terror and Ruffnut laughs like a maniac, the ungainly saddle swings down to bump upside down between Meatlug's stubby legs and they both plummet toward certain death on the rocks below.

"Oh Thor, oh Thor," Fishlegs screams. He's not afraid to die, but Meatlug is only fast enough to catch one of them and he's trained her well: he wants her to catch Ruffnut, though it means he won't have time to say goodbye. As these thoughts flash rapidly through his mind, he gulps and closes his eyes, prepared to embrace his end.

But it doesn't come. Instead, he comes to a jolting halt spread-eagled on Meatlug's back and she reaches her very flexible tongue up to lick him enthusiastically. From his compromised position, he watches helpless as a large, single-horned dragon with glittering red scales snatches Ruffnut out of the air and sets her down lightly on the ground, landing beside her. Fishlegs cringes inwardly; he knows the dragon, and its rider.

Mortified, he wiggles and squirms until he is once again upright, though without a saddle. He reaches down to pat Meatlug, torn between whether to give her extra granite tonight or to make her eat sandstone. "Come on, girl," he says quietly. "I guess this just wasn't our event."

They fly off together in the direction of home, Ruffnut's laughter ringing in their ears.

* * *

 **And don't miss the exciting conclusion . . .**


	4. Chapter 4

And Four to Go:

Whoever it was that designated women as the tender sex really ought to be pounded. At least, such is the opinion of a certain number of Berk's unattached males, especially since most of Berk's young ladies, single or not, are quite capable of pounding on the slightest provocation. How any of them get married at all is a puzzle beyond resolution, defying the greatest feats of logic or flights of fancy that can be imagined.

Such is the gist of the thoughts running collectively through the minds of Snotlout Jorgenson and Fishlegs Ingermann on this fine summer day, however inelegantly expressed. They're all back in the academy today, just like old times, surrounded by their dragons, for Hiccup to formally hand over the reins of authority to a worthy successor. As chief, Hiccup has very little time to accomplish many tasks, and is learning to delegate by starting with his beloved academy. He hasn't named a successor, as yet, and the twins are not-so-quietly placing bets on the outcome.

"It's gonna' be Astrid," Tuffnut mutters, completely ignoring the little speech Hiccup has prepared. Astrid glares in his direction, but he ignores that too.

"How do you figure that?" Ruffnut asks, cuffing him sharply.

He rubs the back of his head, where a new bruise is forming. "She pounds harder than you do?" he ventures, and Ruffnut hits him again.

"Moron," she retorts, "Astrid only pounds Hiccup, because she likes him, and Snotlout, because she doesn't."

"Hey, guys, could you just settle down, for a minute?" Hiccup asks, interrupting the brewing argument.

"No way," Tuffnut replies, "I say we should vote: whoever pounds the hardest gets to be new academy leader."

"You wanna' put it to the test?" Astrid warns, rubbing her fist in anticipation.

Hiccup rubs his temples as if warding off an impending headache. "Guys, don't turn this into another competition."

"Oh, if Hiccup says no competition, then I'm in," Snotlout shouts, shouldering forward and flexing his muscles experimentally. "Who's pounding who?"

"That's _whom_ , actually," Astrid points out smugly.

"Nobody's pounding anybody!"

"Actually, Hiccup," Fishlegs raises an unassuming hand, "if Astrid wants to pound Snotlout, I will happily stand here and watch."

Snotlout bristles. "You're just jealous," he sneers at his rival.

"Of what?"

Tuffnut elbows Ruffnut in the ribs to get her attention. "Wait for it," he whispers in her ear and she grins in response.

The dragons are stirring now, picking up on the tension in the humans' voices. Hookfang expresses his agitation with a low growl, bending his long sinuous neck around his rider. Meatlug has that concerned look on her expressive face. Toothless sniffs the air and warbles, but has yet to make a move. If pick your battles applies to dragon hierarchy, then this has yet to become a battle he's willing to fight.

Snotlout's face has gone a shade darker, out of embarrassment or anger, but he dare not back down now. Honor demands he answer the question. He hitches his belt up higher, swaggers the few paces over to where Fishlegs stands, raises himself to his full height—which is still shorter than Fishlegs by more than a head—and pointedly thumbs his nose. Tuffnut gasps, but Astrid just quirks an eyebrow. Thumbing the nose is an ancient form of nonverbal insult, almost forgotten in these modern times of wordplay and name-calling.

"You're jealous of five-thousand pounds of Viking awesomeness," he says.

A beat of silence, then Fishlegs, along with Tuffnut, Ruffnut, Astrid, and every single dragon present, bursts out laughing; Hiccup rolls his eyes. They've all heard that one before, but now it seems particularly inane.

"All right, then," Hiccup begins, trying to steer the group back to the task at hand.

"Hey, I've got an idea!" Hiccup glares at Tuffnut, but the twin ignores him, as usual. "Fishlegs is jealous because —"

"Not another word, Tuff," Hiccup threatens, while Ruffnut punches her brother.

"I'll have you know, Snotlout," Fishlegs begins with great dignity, "that if you're referring to certain events of the last few months, I at least managed to stay upright and not get knocked over by a Terrible Terror looking for fish."

"You fell off your dragon," Snotlout scoffs.

"And your dragon attacked you."

That effectively tips the scales. Snotlout leaps on top of Fishlegs, pummeling every inch he can reach, and Snotlout is justifiably proud of his fists and ability to handle himself in a fight. But Fishlegs is both taller and broader; quiet he may be, but he's lethal when roused. He gives no quarter, and it's not long before he has Snotlout in a nasty headlock and starts squeezing. Unfortunately, he's hampered by his own stubby arms and the fact that Snotlout has a very short neck. Snotlout writhes and squirms, wriggling until he's in a better position. Bending his leg back, he trips Fishlegs up and both tumble awkwardly to the ground, still punching, kicking, and scratching.

Hiccup steps forward to intervene and end the fight, but that's when the dragons get involved. Meatlug trundles forward and tries to lick some sense into her rider, but she accidentally drops her heavy tail on Snotlout's head. The resultant _thunk_ of bone on bone catches Hookfang's attention, and he sticks his narrow head into the mess, clawing his way forward with his heavy tail swishing back and forth jerkily. Too jerkily. It catches Barf on the neck and Belch snaps in response, grabbing Hookfang's tail in his sharp teeth. With a roar, Hookfang whirls, and then it's dragon versus dragon and rider versus rider. Hiccup shouts, Astrid charges in, Ruffnut and Tuffnut bump fists gleefully, and Toothless watches, now and then licking his talons idly.

Into the chaos that used to be a meeting of the Berk Dragon Training Academy, a barrel-chested dragon descends and allows his barrel-chested rider to slide to the ground. Eret, son of Eret, former dragon trapper, Berk's newest citizen, and the subject of intense gossip among the young ladies, strides forward, oozing masculinity and self-confidence.

"Dragon riders!" he exclaims loudly, ignoring Ruffnut's tittering. "Can't you hear yourselves?"

Gradually, silence falls over the arena.

"See? That's how it's done," Astrid whispers in Hiccup's ear.

"Not helping."

Eret hauls Fishlegs and Snotlout apart, then drops them unceremoniously on the ground to lick their wounds morosely. "Hiccup," he says brightly, "I have a proposal for you. I would have waited until you returned, but this meeting appears to be taking some time."

Ruffnut pauses in the middle of a wrestling match with Tuffnut to perk up her ears. Ignoring Snotlout and Fishlegs, who are quietly resuming their argument, she watches as Eret confers with Hiccup and Astrid, the latter two smiling and nodding in agreement. The small huddle breaks apart abruptly, and Eret approaches her, his hand held out. She takes it and rises, hope blossoming in her bosom. At least, she thinks it's hope; it might actually be her stomach growling. Tuffnut is watching dumbfounded, his face the picture of utter confusion.

"Ruffnut," Eret begins pleasantly, "would you and your brother lead me to your 'dark, soggy place,' as you call it? It's infested with Smokebreaths and they're threatening to overrun the village again."

He turns to mount Skullcrusher again, but stops with his feet on the dragon's leg. "Oh, and don't bring any weapons, unless you're planning on losing them." He settles lightly into the saddle and rises into the sky with his dragon, heading for the village to organize the hunt.

Ruffnut sticks her lip out in a massive pout. "There goes my broadsword," she mutters in disappointment, climbing unhappily into her saddle.

Maybe next summer she'll have some luck.

 **The End**

* * *

 **A/N: Thanks for reading! If you like my work, I'm currently working on an AU and a Crossover that will probably be published sometime this summer. I'm also thinking about revisiting _A Dark Night in Sprodj_ , since it's been languishing unloved for nearly a year. We'll see. **

**Readers in the USA, have a lovely Fourth of July, eat lots of barbacue and enjoy the fireworks. Until next time!**

 **Constantinus**


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